


East Wind Melts The Ice

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Kitsune, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society built on hierarchy, Changmin knows his place—until the careful order of ownership is thrown into disarray by a mysterious stranger who breaks all the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East Wind Melts The Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thier_sess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thier_sess).



> Set vaguely in the late 17th century. | For those unfamiliar with this period of Japanese history: Yoshiwara/the Five Streets was the licensed pleasure-quarter built outside Edo. Women were displayed in cages attached to the front of brothels. A kagema was a crossdressing male prostitute, often connected with Kabuki theatre and often, but not exclusively, an onnagata (female role actors). | The quote from _The Tale of Genji_ is from Royall Tyler’s translation (Ch.26, _Tokonatsu_ ; p.470 of the unabridged edition, 2001). | The title is from the Chinese almanac, which was used historically in Japan.

The sun is brutal. Hanging low in the sky, its light is harsh and unforgiving. Changmin has nowhere to hide. The shadows of the wooden bars cut across the hems of his kimono and under-gowns, and stripe across the silk-wrapped koto at his feet. He keeps his chin up, lips pressed into a line, and fixes his gaze on the slate-grey rooftop of one of the finer establishments two streets away.

Beneath the padded layers of his garments, he’s cold. Winter has been harsh this year. Though the snows have gone, in the mornings the ground is still riven with frost. The beaten earth floor of the brothel’s cage is as hard as iron. Despite the wooden clogs he wears, he feels the creep of frost through his feet and worries for his koto.

She is not used to such treatment. Usually he keeps her in a cherry wood box in his sleeping chamber; usually he takes her out and touches her silken strings by candlelight, on his knees before her with the scent of orchids or plum blossoms between them. Only when his mind is quiet and all due reverence has been paid will she sing for him.

Red Dappled Silk is the most precious thing he owns. She does not deserve to lie on the ground like some common object, but since she played a role in his transgression, she must share his punishment.

Changmin focuses on his breathing. He can’t be seen to be like the men clustered on the other side of the cage. Their breaths puff clouds of heat into the frigid air. He inhales and exhales slow and shallow. To the men it will seem as if he scarcely draws breath at all.

“Look at him,” they say to one another. “He truly is as cold as ice. Ah, to be the one who thaws that beauty and makes him burn!”

Perhaps the glare of the sun is a blessing. It casts the faces of his audience into shadow, although he can tell from their clothes and their accents that Yoshiwara servants and shopkeepers stand amongst the merchants and men of greater worth. Some are still drunk from a night of excess, but others are alert and talkative. Without fail, all are eager to witness his humiliation, cried aloud up and down the Five Streets as soon as day dawned. 

The artist Moronobu slips between the crowd and stares through the bars with fixed intensity. He studies Changmin’s kimono of black watered silk; plain above the obi, red and green leaves fall beneath it to swirl around the trailing hem. The obi itself is heavy grey striped with leaf-green and sewn with silver thread. Changmin wears three under-robes, the first patterned red and white, the second pure white, and the third pale grey. His hair, worn long in defiance of the orders of the shogunate, is arranged in the split peach style and dressed with pins of tortoiseshell and silver.

“Tamakazura,” Moronobu says, recognising the outfit as one Changmin wore in the Kabuki play that had made him one of the most celebrated onnagata in all of Edo. “Will you be like that lady, I wonder, endlessly rejecting suitors?”

One of the men standing nearby laughs. “A kagema can’t afford to reject suitors. A friend of mine had him for one hundred _monme_ of silver. Best three hours of his life, my friend said.”

“Your friend is to be envied,” another man calls out. “When I fucked him, the pleasure cost four times that amount. I have no complaints, though—the Prince of Ice knows how to make a man die of ecstasy. Despite his name, he’s hot and tight inside, and oh, his mouth...”

“That must’ve been after the success of _The Love Suicides at Katsuragawa_ ,” a third man says, sounding aggrieved. “His master Kazen raised his price around that time. I’d saved enough for one night, but when I went to make the arrangements, the go-between told me it would cost more. Curse those pimps from Kyoto! They don’t care about love, all they want is money!”

Moronobu turns to the men. “He’s skilled with his mouth, you say? How unusual.” His fingers twitch as if he already holds a brush in his hand.

“Look closely,” the second man says, pointing through the bars. “Even with the make-up you can surely see the lushness of his lips. Now imagine them slicked wet with wine, the paint smearing as he takes your cock in that pretty mouth. The pleasure is beyond belief, friend! As good as sinking into a juicy cunt. No, better!”

The other men laugh and agree. “You should draw him like that,” someone says to Moronobu. “I have every print you’ve produced with his likeness and would happily buy more—especially if your next series depicted the joys of springtime.”

Changmin stares so hard at the rooftop that his eyes water. He blinks away the moisture and grits his teeth. He has all of Moronobu’s prints, too, rolled up and tucked safe inside a lacquered box. He takes them out sometimes and looks at them, a succession of his most famous roles: the lovesick maiden Otane, the fox-bride Kuzunoha, and eight different images of Tamakazura.

Two of the pictures show him with the koto. A year ago, Moronobu had paid a small fortune merely to kneel in Changmin’s reception room and draw Red Dappled Silk. Now Changmin sits alone in the cage that fronts this fifth-class brothel, his services available to any man bold enough to throw down a coin.

But though the crowd grows as the sun climbs higher and the day warms, no one has the courage to buy what already belongs to another.

Moronobu looks back at Changmin. “Perhaps I should do a springtime series,” he says. “From what I hear, the Prince of Ice will soon be taken from our admiring gaze.”

“You heard right,” one of the others says. “Sakabe Doya has offered for him. Five hundred gold _ryo_.”

“I heard seven hundred,” someone else puts in, and the crowd buzzes with argument and counter-argument as they try to agree on Changmin’s price.

“What is it, O Prince of Ice?” Moronobu leans against the bars, smirking. “No man here can match Master Sakabe’s riches. I doubt even the shogun can claim to have more wealth at hand. How much are you worth?”

Changmin lowers his gaze, veiling his eyes with his lashes. He wishes he could get up and go inside. Even though the brothel is a foul, ill-smelling place crawling with lice and full of women who loathe him for scaring off whatever poor trade usually comes their way, their scorn is preferable to this awful humiliation. But he can’t leave the cage, not until the auntie who runs this house gives him permission—or until one of these men buys his favours.

“Doesn’t matter how much Sakabe is paying for him,” the second man says. “For the next ten days he’s worth as much as one of the broken-down whores in this dump. A few coppers, isn’t that right?”

“I believe so,” says Moronobu, “but are you willing to risk Sakabe’s wrath?”

The second man utters a nervous laugh. “Not me. Sakabe is a rabid dog when crossed. He’s had men killed simply for jostling against his palanquin in a crowded street.”

Mutters of agreement. Tension curls through Changmin. He tries to relax, but it’s impossible. He must endure ten full days of this, and all because he refused to play the koto for Sakabe Doya.

Two days ago, his master Kazen informed Changmin that someone had offered to buy his freedom and clear his debts. After twenty years in Kazen’s house, the costs of his keeping, his training in song and dance and the arts of love, not to mention the expense of his wardrobe, had all ensured that Changmin’s debts were as vast and deep as the ocean. He had made Kazen rich, but he could never hope to recoup the outlay his master had spent on him. Few courtesans ever gained their freedom through their own efforts; most clung to the hope of being sold as a minor wife or concubine to a besotted patron, but Changmin had no such hope. Kagema made poor wives and worse concubines.

And then Sakabe had offered for him. Of the merchant class and possessing almost unimaginable wealth, Sakabe’s taste for the finest, rarest, and most expensive things in life was matched only by his vicious temper. Changmin knew of two onnagata who’d temporarily enjoyed Sakabe’s patronage. One of them was beaten half to death for speaking out of turn. The other had one eye gouged out when Sakabe caught the boy flirting with one of his retainers.

As for the kagema he’d bought... Rumour had it that Sakabe had killed any number of boys from Kyoto and Osaka when they displeased him, or he’d abandoned them in remote places like Dewa and Mutsu, where they’d put an end to their lives rather than suffer more misfortune.

None of this mattered to Kazen. He was overjoyed by the offer of seven hundred ryo for Changmin’s contract, but like the cunning snake he was, Kazen tried to drive the price higher by insisting that Sakabe court Changmin publically for a month before the contract was exchanged.

“Since your retirement from the stage, your popularity has only grown,” Kazen told Changmin. “I boasted to Sakabe of how much you made from the endorsements of face powder and perfumes and the silk merchant’s shop, and I let him peek at the names on your client list. He said he would pay a thousand ryo to possess you, but once I suggested a period of courtship, he again said seven hundred... but then he agreed to throw a party in the Five Streets to celebrate the evening of your union, and he will pay for everything.”

Kazen’s eyes gleamed with avaricious glee. “ _Everything_. Only think of the money to be made on food and drink alone! Then he’ll need entertainers—geisha, courtesans, tumblers, rope-walkers, and then all the attendants, and the hiring of the teahouses and the paying of bribes to the gatekeeper and the watchmen, and...”

Knowing his wishes were immaterial, Changmin stayed silent and let his master babble on. At length Kazen realised his lack of interest and rounded on him, calling him an ingrate.

“You may be the Prince of Ice, but you will melt for Sakabe, do you understand? You owe everything to me: your success, your abilities, the clothes on your back, the way you walk—it’s all thanks to Father and I. If we hadn’t taken you in, you’d have died on the streets like any other unwanted brat. You will show your appreciation. You’ll smile and flatter and sing and dance for Sakabe when he calls on you, and you’ll make sure that he knows you’re worth every last copper coin I intend to squeeze out of him in return for your freedom.”

Changmin stared at his master. “I do not owe you everything.”

Kazen had opened and closed his mouth like a carp. “What?”

“My skill with the koto. That had nothing to do with you or your father.” Keeping his expression blank, Changmin had left the room, the breath frozen in his throat at his audacity. But what could Kazen do? He wouldn’t risk harming Changmin, not when so much money was at stake, and if he locked Changmin in his rooms, the clients would complain.

Kazen could do nothing. The thought pleased Changmin very much. 

But then came his first encounter with Sakabe. Although he’d decided to be as calm and gracious as he was with all his clients, the meeting was a disaster. Sakabe had sat on the triple-banded tatami with a cup of the most expensive wine in Edo and he’d stared at Changmin with lustful greed, and then he’d demanded that Changmin perform for him.

“The koto,” Sakabe said. “I have heard much of your skill. Your fingering is said to be divine. Let one of the servants fetch your instrument. I want you to play for me.”

Kazen nodded and made gestures for him to agree, but Changmin couldn’t. “Your Excellency,” he said, bowing, “I regret Red Dappled Silk sings only when she chooses and not at my command. Though I may be able to coax some paltry tune from her, it would not be worthy of your ears.”

It was clear from the look on Sakabe’s face that few people had ever denied him anything. He put down his wine cup. “You will play for me.”

Changmin met his gaze. “I cannot. To achieve true purity of sound, I must be in a space unencumbered by sordid reminders of the material world.”

“You dare to call me sordid?” Furious, Sakabe lurched to his feet. The wine spilled, staining the tatami and puddling on the floor. Seizing his riding crop, Sakabe went to strike Changmin.

Kazen threw himself forward. “Not his face, Your Excellency! Don’t mark his face!”

Changmin didn’t flinch. He remained absolutely still and let Sakabe rage and threaten him, and then the merchant hurled the whip aside.

“If you want to make good on this sale, you’ll punish this whore for his insolence,” Sakabe snapped. “I am leaving the city on business. Until I return and renegotiate his price, put him on display in the cage of the lowest brothel in Yoshiwara. Let him sit there between the hours of the Dragon and the Rooster for ten full days.”

Kazen blinked in confusion. “But Your Illustriousness, the boy-brothels are here in Yoshicho.”

Sakabe stared down at Changmin, the slow poison of damaged pride festering in his eyes. “I want him amongst the diseased and age-ridden women in a fifth-class brothel. I want him to know the ignominy of sinking so low. And make it known that, like the cheapest whore, he’s available to any man with a couple of coppers to spare.”

Changmin had wondered then if anyone would be brave enough or stupid enough to take Sakabe’s declaration on faith. He wonders the same now. The whole of Yoshiwara, it seems, has come to witness his shame, and yet though they all talk of buying him, though they inflame one another with boasts of what they’d do to him, no one dares to cast down even the smallest, meanest coin.

Ten days of this will drive him witless.

The sun has warmed the earth at his feet. The stink of damp earth and effluent rises, spoiling the scent of sandalwood and aloes burned into his clothes. Behind him, through the tattered blue curtain, he hears one of the whores arguing with the auntie who runs this place. The sound is more disturbing than the mutterings of the crowd in front of him. Changmin closes his eyes. The crowd draws breath. Inside the house, the whore utters a scream and begins to sob.

His silks crumpling around him, Changmin slides from his seat onto his knees. The tiny silver bells on his hairpins chime. The crowd beyond the wooden bars takes a step closer, watching him avidly.

Changmin unwraps the koto from the silk. It’s expensive, in shades of dappled red to match her name. He rests his hands on her body, then makes slight adjustments to the ivory bridges supporting the twisted silken strings. The whore’s sobs continue unabated within the brothel. Changmin runs one hand the length of the thirteen strings. His vision blurs, the woman’s misery digging into him. He doesn’t have the jade picks he habitually uses when he plays, but no matter. Red Dappled Silk wants to sing, and he will obey.

He plucks a note, lets it slide, then adds another. It’s not a tune, he realises as he lets the music shiver, quiet at first and then with more force. The koto is mimicking the whore’s anger, but where that ended in tears, this builds to become something beautiful and powerful. It rolls through him, sweeter than orgasm, deeper than love, as endless as death. The music swells, embraces the sound of all instruments, and then it stops, sharp and sudden.

Changmin jerks out of the trance that had held him fast. His breaths are rapid, almost gasping. Sweat streaks his body beneath the silk. He feels dizzy, the world around him tilting. He looks up, trying to focus on the crowd, but the faces and figures blur. The silver bells chime again. He’s trembling. He curls his hands inside his sleeves, feeling the tenderness on the pads of his fingers where the strings bit into his skin.

The sun burns white. He stares right into its face then looks away, dazzled, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. The crowd murmurs and shifts, and then someone is standing directly in front of him, protecting him from the glare, casting him into shadow.

Changmin blinks, still sun-blind. He sees a man, tall and handsome and with a smile that’s white and terrifying. Accustomed to the cosmetically-blackened teeth of courtesans and the tobacco-stained teeth of his clients, such whiteness is wrong. Like an animal’s teeth, small and sharp.

He scarcely has time to process the oddity of the stranger’s appearance, for a moment later a handful of gold ryo tumbles through the bars to lie glittering in the dirt. 

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and then a long silence.

Changmin leans forward and picks up one of the coins. It’s warm in his hand.

“Hey.” A familiar voice makes Changmin look up again. Uemon the tofu-seller has wriggled through the press of people and is trying to make the acquaintance of the stranger, who gazes first at the koto and then at Changmin.

Uemon is persistent. “Hey, friend. You look like you’re new to the Five Streets. You probably don’t know how things are done around here.” His smile is ingratiating, his tone wheedling as he tugs on the stranger’s sleeve. “If you have gold to spend, you shouldn’t throw it into the mud.”

The stranger shakes off Uemon’s hand. “And yet the most beautiful flower grows from the mud.”

Changmin’s lips part. He’s glad of the thick layer of make-up covering his confusion.

Uemon seems just as surprised by the misplaced gallantry. “Friend, let me give you a word of advice. This isn’t the right house for you. This is nothing. Let me show you to the high-class teahouses where the most beautiful courtesans await your pleasure. I can make all the necessary introductions. I’m sure that even Ohisa, the most celebrated courtesan in the district, will alter her schedule for a man like you—and her appointments are booked months in advance!”

Curling one hand around the bars, the stranger says, “I don’t want a woman.”

“Not a problem.” Uemon doesn’t miss a beat. “There are plenty of pretty boys available, though the best are in the city. A good friend of mine owns a teahouse in Yoshicho. He hosts all the famous onnagata. I’d be delighted to introduce you...”

The stranger’s grip tightens, his gaze locked on Changmin. “I don’t want a boy, either.”

Uemon stares, utterly bewildered. “Then what _do_ you want?”

* * *

In deference to the gold coins, the auntie gives Changmin the best room in the brothel. It’s scarcely half the size of his parlour in Kazen’s house. Though it smells of damp wood and cheap fragrance and the sourness of bodies, at least it seems mostly clean and free of vermin.

The tatami is ragged at the edges. There’s only one futon, where at Kazen’s house he sleeps on three. There’s no alcove containing a beautiful flower arrangement or elegant scroll; nothing to focus the mind and give pleasure to the senses. This is a base room used for base activities.

Changmin kneels on the tatami, his skirts artfully arranged around him. Red Dappled Silk sits beside him. Her notes still echo, calling for him to play again, but he keeps his hands in his lap. He waits, listening to the rough talk of the whores in the corridor as they discuss the stranger. A foreigner, obviously, by his speech and strangeness of dress and his hair, but foreigners are rarely permitted beyond the ports with which they trade. The whores decide he’s an envoy from some far-off place, come to visit the shogun. Only a foreigner would go about unaccompanied with so much wealth on his person. Only a foreigner would come to a fifth-class brothel and spend good coin on a disgraced kagema.

The whores scatter about their business as a door opens. The floorboards creak as the auntie leads the stranger along the hall. The door to his room slides open. Changmin bows, both hands on the mat. He keeps his head low, but not low enough to reveal his unpainted nape. That will come later, once he has the measure of his client.

He waits until the auntie leaves, closing the door after her, and then he says, “Forgive me for receiving you in such humble surroundings, my lord.”

“I am not a lord.” The stranger sounds amused.

“My apologies, Excellency.”

Now the stranger snorts. “I have no title. Just a name.”

Changmin rises from his bow and looks up. “And what is your name?”

“I would have your name first.” The stranger is lounging against the wall, arms folded, his gaze quicksilver bright as he studies the room. He looks at the koto again, then at Changmin, and he smiles. It’s warm and inviting, his smile. “But tell me your real name, not that Prince of Ice epithet the crowd was tossing around like chaff.”

Truly this man is a foreigner. Changmin knows his reputation is widespread across the Three Cities. Men used to journey to Edo from Kyoto and Osaka just for a glimpse of him on stage. Perhaps he should be insulted that the stranger doesn’t know who he is, but it’s refreshing and somehow liberating. He smiles in return. “My name is Changmin.”

The stranger bows. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Yunho.”

Changmin peeps at him, watching as Yunho pushes away from the wall and moves around the room. So much restless energy; it almost shines from him. Changmin has been trained all his life to be still and passive, only able to show his feelings through performance, whether song or dance or conversation or sex. Yunho has exuberance and courage, and Changmin wonders what it must be like to be so free with one’s emotions.

Of course, only a foreigner could act in such a way. Yunho seems oblivious to all the rules regarding assignations. He should be praising Changmin’s beauty by now, or—since this is a fifth-class brothel and such niceties are left unobserved—Changmin should be in the skylark ascending position with his skirts pulled up and his ass in the air.

Instead, Yunho is still ranging around the room, looking at and touching objects with interest as if he’s never seen the like before. Perhaps he hasn’t, Changmin thinks; perhaps there are no low-class brothels in whichever province or country Yunho calls his home. No dirty tatami or thin futons or racks of threadbare clothes.

Changmin turns his head to follow Yunho’s progress. He is handsome, and not in the usual way. He has small, sharp features set in a narrow face with a pointed chin, and he moves with a sure-footed grace that makes Changmin feel large and clumsy in comparison. His hair is the colour of cherry wood, cut short and textured like feathers or fur rather than smoothed back and dressed with oil.

His garments are silk, pale shades mixed with bold colours in combinations that make no sense, and the patterns... They aren’t like the printed silks sold in the city with patterns of checks and stripes and flowers and trees. They’re odd, as if someone had described a pattern from an imperfect memory and Yunho had made the print himself. The scent burned into them is just as peculiar, like ink and cinnamon, warm fur and wet grass. 

“You are not from Edo,” Changmin says when the silence is too great to bear. “Your accent, your garments...”

Yunho crouches to examine the koto. “I am from a place west and north of here.”

Changmin thinks. He has only a hazy idea of which provinces lie where, and guesses, “Hizen?”

“Close enough.” Yunho circles around to sit on the tatami. “Why did the artist call you Tamakazura?”

Startled, for he hadn’t seen Yunho in the crowd when Moronobu made that statement, Changmin says, “It is my most famous role. The playwright Ki no Kaion wrote it for me.”

“She was a virtuous woman, this Tamakazura?” Yunho gestures at Changmin’s obi, tied at the back like a respectable woman rather than knotted at the front like a whore’s sash.

His ignorance is touching, and Changmin laughs. “You never saw the play?”

Yunho smiles. “No.”

“I believe the Nakajimaya theatre is reviving it.”

“But you won’t be in it, so watching it would be a waste of time.”

Changmin releases some of the tension he’s been holding. Yunho is flirting with him. This is more like it. He understands this, can control it. He dips his head, coquettish and teasing. “You flatter me.”

For a moment Yunho looks puzzled, then he smiles again. “No.”

Confusion draws Changmin’s brows together. Every time he thinks he has the measure of this man, things shift and leave him grasping after nothing.

“Tamakazura is the lady in the west wing in _The Tale of Genji_ ,” he says, taking refuge in the certainty of his own knowledge. “She is the daughter of Genji’s best friend, To no Chujo. She flees from an unwanted marriage and Genji takes her into his home without revealing her whereabouts to To no Chujo. Genji falls in love with her, and perhaps she falls a little in love with him, but she resists his advances and rejects all other suitors.”

Yunho tilts his head. “How singular.”

“She wants to choose her own husband.” Changmin stares at his hands in his lap. “She is a plaything of fate, anchored for a time in a safe haven only for storms to come and blow her to different shores. Other women in her position in the tale put on grey robes and become nuns, but she determines to marry where she wills.”

“I see.” The amusement is back in Yunho’s voice. “And does she love the man she chooses to wed?”

Changmin looks at him. “No. He is a fool, beneath her in every way.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

“Because it was her decision.”

A long silence falls. Footsteps pass by in the hall outside. He can smell tobacco smoke from somewhere. A few rays of winter sunshine force their way through the cracks in the wooden walls, dust flitting and dancing in the light. 

“Few things are truly my decision,” Changmin says, his voice scarcely above a whisper. He doesn’t want the auntie to overhear and report his words to Kazen. “When I was younger and in my prime, I could pick and choose from amongst my suitors. Now I am a falling flower, my master urges me to accept every man with coin to spend.”

“They are all beneath you,” Yunho murmurs, gaze dark, his face expressionless.

“Some want me because they think I’m beautiful. Others want me because they’ve been told I’m beautiful.” Changmin pauses, his mouth twisting. “Some want me because I’m famous or because I’m expensive. Some want me because I’m a man. Some prefer me to be a woman, and others want me to be both.” He looks at Yunho, the silver bells chiming on his hairpins. “Sometimes I don’t know who I am.”

Yunho considers, then says, “You are a koto player.”

Another unexpected answer. Changmin pulls himself out of his mood and laughs, more startled than amused. “Like Tamakazura. That’s why the role was written for me, you know. Because of my skill with the koto. ‘It has no deep secrets’,” he quotes lightly, “‘but I doubt that it is easy to play genuinely well’.”

“Oh, it’s very difficult to play well,” Yunho agrees, “but as for having no secrets... That is a foolish thing to say. All musical instruments have secrets, and this koto holds many.” He flicks a hand towards Red Dappled Silk. “Play her for me?”

Changmin knows he should hesitate. He should demur and protest his humble skills, but Yunho has already heard him play, and besides, the koto whispers to him, offering her music. He moves her closer and gathers his concentration. The only thing of beauty in this room is Yunho, but to look upon a lover while playing is considered shallow. Instead he fixes his gaze on the patterned silk of Yunho’s robe.

He plays. An old melody at first, ‘You Shall Have Shade’, and though the lyrics push at him, he keeps them locked inside. Red Dappled Silk needs no accompaniment.

Changmin bends over the koto, fingers travelling the length of the instrument, plucking, soothing, grazing the edge of his thumbnail across all the strings in a wide sweep. Notes flurry and swirl, resonating through him, and he plays variations that segue into something new and dark and sonorous. 

Yunho sits rapt, his eyes closed, a smile of delight softening his features. The music flows around him, almost tangible, almost visible, and he responds to it with easy, open sensuality.

Changmin lifts his hands from the koto. The final scattering of notes hangs in the air, vibrating and fading, and then there’s silence.

He’s trembling. Arousal has him in its grasp. Changmin exhales a shaking breath. Sometimes this happens, the music wakening desire in him, but never has it happened when he’s with a client.

Yunho opens his eyes and looks at Changmin, expression hazy. He blinks, then sits forward and takes Changmin’s hands, turning them over. They both look at the red marks on the pads of Changmin’s fingers, at the raw lines scraped up the sides of his thumbs from the koto’s strings.

“No more today, I think,” Yunho says.

Changmin stares at him. Yunho’s touch is both rough and soft, a contradiction he doesn’t understand. Longing overwhelms him. He wants to be held. “Now,” Changmin says, struggling to regain his poise, “now would you like...”

“What I would like,” Yunho says, giving him a slow, gleaming look, “is for you to take off your make-up.”

The request is strange. Changmin fumbles with a reply. “I can’t do that. After you are done with me, I must go back outside into the cage. I can’t let them see me without make-up. It’s... it...”

“The illusion would be ruined,” Yunho says. “I understand.” He lets go of Changmin’s hands and rises to his feet, adjusting the fall of his garments.

“But,” Changmin protests, unable to believe that Yunho paid all that money simply to hear him play one tune, “do you require nothing else of me?”

“Not today.” Yunho bows to him, far deeper than necessary, and then he smiles and takes his leave.

* * *

The following day, the crowd outside the fifth-class brothel is much bigger. No doubt they’ve gathered to see if the foreigner dares to engage Changmin’s services a second time.

The whores go out and accost the curious onlookers. Since they’re banned from the cage for the duration of Changmin’s punishment, they have to ply their trade somehow, and they may as well take advantage of the glut of men who’ve come to stare.

Changmin watches the women move through the crowd. Today he is dressed as Kuzunoha, wearing a kimono of pale red decorated with the leaves of the kuzu plant oversewn with swirling golden clouds. His obi is black and orange, printed with chrysanthemums and camellias. His under-robes are red and green, and his hair ornaments are of gold and mother-of-pearl. Red Dappled Silk rests at his feet on several overlapping scraps of tatami.

As the hour of the Dragon draws to a close, Yunho appears. The crowd parts for him, silent as he throws another handful of gold ryo through the bars.

The blue curtain is whisked back and the auntie rushes out, almost tripping over her skirts in her haste to collect the coins. Changmin picks up Red Dappled Silk and carries her inside.

Today more effort has been made with the assignation room. The floor has been swept and a lamp sputters with an indifferent flame. The torn tatami has been replaced and a fresh green smell fills the air. Changmin sets down his koto and kneels, conscious of the thrill tickling through him. He doesn’t know if it comes from Red Dappled Silk, who seems eager to sing again, or if it’s due to the thought of closer acquaintance with Yunho.

The door slides open and Yunho comes in. He bows low to Changmin. The auntie, who had not yet shut the door, stares at Yunho, her eyes wide with astonishment. He straightens and dismisses her faltering offer of wine with a flick of his fingers, and then the door is closed and they’re left alone.

“A report of your peculiar gallantry will be all over the Five Streets within the hour,” Changmin says, smiling. “It is I who should bow to you, not the other way around.”

“You play the koto.” Yunho settles himself on the tatami.

“And do you bow to everyone who plays the koto?” Changmin asks, raising his eyebrows, mouth pressed into a line to stop his laughter.

Yunho flashes him a teasing look. “Impudent creature, of course not. I would grow dizzy and fall over. No, I only bow to true masters.”

The reply flusters Changmin. He draws back a little. “You have travelled. You must know of many people who play better than I.”

“Only one,” Yunho says, voice soft and musing, “and she is dead.”

A tiny sliver of jealousy stabs at Changmin. He ignores it, lays his hands on Red Dappled Silk, and smiles. “Shall I play for you?”

“Please.”

Changmin prepares himself. Today he brought with him the jade picks, and he slips them onto his first and third fingers, onto his thumbs. He gazes into the lamp’s flame to find the focus required, then tilts his head and passes his hands over the strings. He doesn’t touch them; not yet. He feels the vibration in the air as she reaches up to him, telling him which tune she wants to sing. He listens, lets the melody take shape in his mind, then he begins to play.

Red Dappled Silk sighs beneath his touch. Her sound is like liquid fire. He loses himself in her, sinking deeper as they weave magic together.

He breaks free of the music only when Yunho places a hand across the strings and says, “It is the hour of the Horse. Rest now.”

Breathless, his heart racing, Changmin sits back on his knees with a long sigh.

Yunho offers him a cup of wine. “She can be demanding.”

“Yes.” Changmin drinks. He’s expecting the foul-tasting watered slop served by this house, but instead the wine is sweet and potent.

“From Mount Koya,” Yunho says. “A very good vintage.”

Changmin wonders when the wine arrived. It must have been when he was playing; he never notices the passing of time when he plays. If he wasn’t even aware of Yunho watching him today, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed the auntie or anyone else bringing in the wine.

He drinks some more. It’s exquisite, finer than anything he’s tasted before. He drains the cup.

Yunho fills it from the ceramic jar beside him, then lifts it to his own lips and takes a sip. Then he turns the cup and passes it to Changmin. “A little more?”

“Thank you.” Changmin takes another drink. He’s being indecorous, swilling this expensive wine as if it was water, and he sets it aside after one mouthful.

Smiling, Yunho takes back the cup and drinks down the remainder before pouring another full measure. He nudges it towards Changmin.

It really is good wine. Changmin reaches for it, then stops. It wouldn’t do for him to lose his head. He usually takes alcohol in moderation so he can stay in control. Already he can feel the warmth of the Koya wine slow-sliding through him, pulling at his senses. With regret he pushes the cup away and shakes his head.

Yunho acknowledges his decision and drinks the rest of the wine himself. 

Red Dappled Silk still wants to sing. Changmin touches her again. This time her tune is simple, little more than fingering exercises, chords merging and swooping with effortless grace.

“How did you come to this life?” Yunho asks.

Changmin stops playing for a moment. The strings hum beneath his hands. “My tale is no different to that of many, many others.”

“Perhaps. But you have a koto, and others do not.”

This time Changmin flattens his palms across Red Dappled Silk and stares at Yunho. “Have you been asking about me? I hope you were discreet. My master will already know of the time you spend here, and the gold. If he knows you’re making enquiries about my past, he may get ideas.”

Yunho looks at him, eyes very bright. “What kind of ideas?”

Surely a man cannot be so ignorant. Changmin huffs a sigh. “Enquiring into my background usually denotes interest.”

“I’m interested.” Putting down the cup, Yunho leans forward and smiles.

Changmin closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw. He reminds himself that Yunho is different. Foreign. Untutored in how things are done here. Yunho’s interest is innocent curiosity, nothing more. There’s no point in hoping—

“I was indentured when I was six years old,” Changmin says, putting a stop to the direction of his thoughts. “I have no memory of my parents and know only that I was sold by a woman in a blue kimono without crests. Perhaps she was my mother. Perhaps she was a servant. Old Uncle, Kazen’s father, didn’t know her. Plenty of women came to him offering their sons for sale. I was one of several boys he bought that year.”

He remembers the time with detachment. There’d been one boy who’d become his friend, and then Old Uncle had sold the lad on to a travelling troupe of actors bound for the Kanazawa domain. From that he’d learned not to get too attached to anyone.

Changmin lets go of the memory and speaks without a scrap of self-pity. “When I was still a child, I used to think I’d been stolen away from my family as part of an elaborate revenge. As I grew older, I accepted that it didn’t matter. No one was coming for me. No one would save me. This is my life; this is the path I have to tread.”

“What of the koto?” Yunho asks.

“It is the only link I have to any kind of family history, but its significance is still a puzzle.” Changmin shrugs lightly. “The woman in the blue kimono told Old Uncle that though I was for sale, the koto was not. She said the koto belonged to me and me alone, and could never be sold or given away unless I chose to do so.” He touches Red Dappled Silk, a loving caress the length of her body. “I could never part with her.”

They sit in silence for a while. When Changmin looks up, he sees Yunho frowning as if deep in thought.

Another moment passes and then Yunho gets to his feet, taking the wine-jar and the cup with him. He strides to the door with a jaunty step, then turns back and bows. “I will call upon you again tomorrow at the same hour.”

Changmin gazes at him. “But...”

“Until tomorrow.” Yunho smiles and is gone.

* * *

The days go by. Yunho comes to the bars of the cage every morning and scatters gold at Changmin’s feet, and Changmin takes his koto and goes indoors.

At first he’d been afraid that some other man would emulate Yunho and engage his services, but it seems everyone else is still afraid of Sakabe Doya’s fury.

“It’s the talk of Edo,” Moronobu says one day while Changmin waits for Yunho to arrive. “Only a foreigner would risk such a foolish venture. Either he’s very, very rich, with the kind of wealth and connections that would make Sakabe too nervous to exact revenge, or he’s a romantic willing to gamble his life on love. Which is it?”

Changmin lowers his gaze. He doesn’t know, but his heart tells him the answer. “He’s a romantic.”

“Then may Kannon help him.” Moronobu narrows his gaze. “Has he melted you, O Prince of Ice? Do you burn in his embrace?”

Yunho’s apparent indifference to his physical charms both confuses and enrages Changmin. He stares at the bars of the cage and doesn’t reply. Moronobu obviously draws his own conclusions and goes away laughing.

When Yunho appears, Changmin is slow to respond to the glinting fall of coins. The auntie has to nudge him from his seat, and by the time he carries Red Dappled Silk inside, his progress deliberately slow, Yunho is waiting for him in the usual place.

The room has much improved since his first day. The floorboards are polished to a pleasing gloss. The tatami is new, edged with coloured bindings of red and black. Three futons lie furled together, soft and inviting. A scroll hangs on one wall, a painting done in the Chinese style depicting a landscape; temples and pine trees upon a mountainside. A low lacquered table is placed underneath, and on it is a delicate porcelain vase containing a small branch of winter plum blossoms.

“You are angry with me,” Yunho says when Changmin lays Red Dappled Silk down between them.

“I’m not.” Changmin looks past him at the plum blossoms, focusing on them to help soothe his ruffled emotions.

Yunho tilts his head, considering. “Disappointed, then. I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.” The lie tastes like vinegar. Changmin can hardly tell a client that he wants him. Not when it’s the truth. It’s easier to flatter and deceive than to be honest. To make things worse, Changmin doesn’t know if he wants Yunho because of his own desires or if it’s simply because Yunho doesn’t want him.

With his mood still tangled, Red Dappled Silk sings in sorrowful, discordant tones. No matter how hard he tries to bring her to something lighter and more joyful, her notes slide towards mourning and her strings resonate with frustration.

Changmin stops playing, fearful of giving himself away entirely.

Yunho hands him a cup of wine. “No matter. If she doesn’t want to sing, it is wrong to force her. Let’s talk instead.”

“About what?” Changmin accepts the cup and takes a sip.

“You, of course.” Yunho smiles. “Were you very gifted on the koto from a young age, I wonder?”

“No. I’d never played it before I was sold to Old Uncle.” The wine relaxes him, and Changmin’s anxiety eases away. He takes another sip. “I’ve tried many times to summon memories of a home before he took me in, but there’s nothing to remember. Not even the sound of the koto.”

“And yet Red Dappled Silk came with you into this life.” 

Changmin nods. “Old Uncle said he paid extra for me because he believed I could play. He set me in front of the instrument and urged me to perform. When I couldn’t, he thought I was being disobedient and beat me. Eventually he realised I had no ability whatsoever and he decided to sell the koto. A rice merchant bought it. Two days later, the merchant’s house burned down. The koto was found unharmed, wrapped in scorched silk. The rice merchant was terrified. He returned the koto to Old Uncle and wouldn’t even ask for his money back.”

Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Fires often occur in Edo, or so I hear.”

“Indeed they do,” Changmin agrees, “but the strange thing about this fire was that it didn’t spread beyond the boundaries of the rice merchant’s house.”

“Truly strange.”

Changmin finishes his wine and puts down the cup. He strokes Red Dappled Silk. “Old Uncle tried again to sell her. A magistrate took her. A fire broke out at the magistrate’s house, and this time it was much more deadly. The magistrate’s mother died alongside two servants who struggled to put out the blaze, and yet the koto was undamaged.

“By now rumour had run all around Edo that the koto was cursed, but still a third buyer was found, one of the outside daimyos residing in the city. The noble lord had priests chant over her to remove the taboo before he took her into his home. That night, a huge fire engulfed his estate. Dozens of people died and the lord was injured. He ordered his retainers to throw the koto into the river, but she floated right back to them. Terrified, they wrapped her up and carried her to their master, who ordered her sent back to Old Uncle.”

“What a peculiar tale,” Yunho says, softly, thoughtfully.

Changmin adjusts one of the ivory bridges. “Old Uncle gave up trying to sell her after that. Then a court musician came from Kyoto to examine her. He seemed very old to me, with white hair and a beard, yet his mind was agile. He praised me for keeping her oiled and cared for, then he studied her, played a few notes on her, and identified her as Red Dappled Silk.”

Yunho lays a hand on the opposite side of the koto. “Only truly great instruments are given names.”

“According to the court musician,” Changmin continues, “Red Dappled Silk was first mentioned in the archives towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Shoko more than two hundred and seventy years ago. It was given to one of the ladies-in-waiting as a wedding gift from an admirer, and when she played it, birds would fall out of the sky in wonder at the sound.”

Now Yunho laughs. “That seems unlikely, but who knows? Such things could have happened in simpler times.”

Changmin smiles a little. “The court musician said there was a rumour that the lady’s admirer was a fox-spirit. Perhaps it’s true, and Red Dappled Silk still holds some fox-magic. In any case, after she came back to me a third time, I learned how to play her. The skill came to me almost overnight.”

“You opened your heart to her,” Yunho says.

Changmin inclines his head. “A dangerous thing to do, especially for one such as I.”

Yunho’s bright gaze sharpens. “You don’t have a lover?”

A blush warms Changmin’s face beneath the smothering white of the make-up. “As I told you before, I have many suitors, but no lover. It’s... simpler.”

“Are you not lonely?”

“No.” He caresses Red Dappled Silk. “The koto keeps me company. She knows my secrets and she sings to me, and I am content with this.”

“She is almost three hundred years old,” Yunho says. “You must know that all objects of any great age have a soul and can come to life. She sings to you and enthrals you, this much I’ve seen for myself, but has she ever done anything else?”

Changmin glances up. “Such as causing fires? I don’t know. For myself, I believe Old Uncle was behind those fires. He wanted the attention rumour would bring, and he profited well from each transaction.”

There’s a short silence. Changmin thinks of the nights he’d lain awake listening to the sound of Red Dappled Silk’s music from the other side of his sleeping chamber. “I have never witnessed her doing anything other than sing,” he says truthfully, “but perhaps that’s because I am too sensible.”

“Ah,” Yunho murmurs, “so a sensible man can never be fooled?”

Changmin lifts his chin and spreads his hands in self-mockery. “You see me thus. Which of us is the bigger fool?”

Yunho gives him a serious look. “Perhaps it is I, for paying court to one beauty at the expense of another.”

* * *

“Why won’t you touch me?” Changmin asks on the fifth day. Red Dappled Silk sits silent between them. The wine-jar is empty, the cup on its side on the lacquered tray. Around them drowses the sweetness of orchids, the scent burned into the long sleeves of Changmin’s kimono. He tosses his head and demands again, “Why don’t you want me? Is my appearance not pleasing to you?”

Yunho is in the process of taking his leave. He stands at the door and regards Changmin with a wistful expression. “You please me in more ways than you can imagine.”

“Then touch me,” Changmin snaps, frustration shivering the silver bells on his hairpins. “Lie me down and love me. You’ve paid for it, so why don’t you take it?”

“Oh, Changmin. Don’t you see? It has to be your decision.” Yunho bows, deeper than ever before. “Until tomorrow.”

The following morning, Changmin sits in the cage as usual. The crowd is thinner today, perhaps gone in search of better entertainment elsewhere, and the sun glares directly into Changmin’s eyes. He fidgets when the drum-tower sounds the hour of the Snake, then forces himself to stillness. His hands rest in his lap. Once again he is dressed as Tamakazura, this time in dark blue Korean silk embroidered with plum blossoms, his under-robes pale blue shading to white.

Yunho appears through the crowd. He’s wearing russet and brown and cream, a pattern of animal tracks with zigzags of gold thread. He comes to a halt outside the bars of the cage and gazes in. There’s no glittering scatter of coins today. He doesn’t offer anything. He just looks at Changmin, his eyes dark and bright.

The crowd falls silent, then begins to murmur.

Changmin draws in a breath as realisation streaks through him. He can’t do this. It would be audacious. Unforgivable. But he does it anyway, excitement and anticipation beating inside him as he gets to his feet, takes up Red Dappled Silk, and goes indoors.

Behind him, the crowd erupts with disbelief.

What Yunho says to the auntie, Changmin has no idea. Never mind that Yunho has paid a fortune in gold these last few days—today there’s no coin, and so technically there should be no assignation. And yet after only a few moments, there’s footsteps in the hallway and the door slides open.

Yunho comes in carrying a tray set with a dish of sweet rice cakes, a wine-jar, and a single cup. He sets it all down on the tatami near the heaped futons, then turns to Changmin. “This is your decision,” Yunho says.

Changmin nods. “Yes.” He gestures at the koto. “Do you want...”

“No.” Yunho comes closer. “But if you would do one thing for me...” He smiles, tilting his head. “I want to see your face. Take off the paint.”

A protest comes to Changmin’s lips, but then he thinks better of it. He’s already broken one rule today. Why not break another?

Laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but Changmin swallows it. He can hardly believe he’s being so bold, and yet something urges him on. He takes a soft wad of tissue paper from within his sleeves and begins to wipe off the powder and paint and wax. There’s no elegant way of doing this. It’s a smearing of white and black and red, and without a mirror he can’t be sure if the mask has been wiped clean or if he resembles some misshapen demon. He scrubs at his face until his skin tingles and the paper comes away free of paint, and then he lifts his head and looks at Yunho.

“Yes,” Yunho says softly. “There you are.”

He puts out a hand and Changmin goes to him. Yunho slides an arm around Changmin’s waist and they look at one another in a kind of wonder. Yunho tilts his head, sharp features softening, his gaze almost quizzical, and Changmin kisses him.

It’s warm, their kiss. Changmin nips at Yunho’s lower lip, tugs softly until Yunho opens his mouth, and then it’s better, hotter, and desire spreads swift and urgent. Yunho’s kisses taste of autumn berries, tart and sweet; the sparkling of frost and the brush of leaves on a breeze, and Changmin wants more.

They sink down onto the futons, touching and exploring. Yunho takes out a few of Changmin’s hairpins. His hair loosens from its severe gathered style, tendrils falling to frame his face. They kiss again and again, unwrap one another from the layers of their garments. Hands move beneath clothes, silk and warm skin, and Changmin breathes in the scent of cinnamon and black ink.

Rolling over, Yunho moves against him, sweeping a hand up the back of Changmin’s neck into his hair. With a low rumble of pleasure purring in his throat, Yunho draws down the collars of kimono and under-robes and licks and licks from Changmin’s shoulders up over his nape.

Changmin melts, reshaping himself to Yunho’s desire, and then he gasps and cries out when Yunho bites him. Ecstasy pierces him; Yunho has sharp teeth, sharp like an animal, and Changmin is caught up in scent and urgency, hot and uneasy and desperate. He writhes on the futons, waiting for Yunho to mount him, but then they roll over again.

Yunho’s eyes flash bright and playful. His smile glistens. Changmin pounces on him. Silk whispers. There’s the delicate tearing of seams, the glitter of silver thread, the unwinding of gold thread. They laugh together, hot and breathless, need rising, desire tightening.

Changmin pins Yunho onto his front and mouths at his nape. It’s clumsy mimicry of what Yunho did to him a moment ago, but the effect is startling. Yunho stills, then his whole body shudders. “Yes,” he says as Changmin nips at his neck. “Yes. Like this.”

The air thickens with lust, the smell rich and musky and—animal, Changmin thinks, dazed. Like springtime. Like rut.

He can’t remember the last time he took rather than was taken. Yunho squirms restlessly beneath him, fingers bunching and kneading at the futon.

“You want,” Changmin says, anxious in case he’s misread this, “do you want—?”

Yunho rubs his head against the futon and growls. “Take me.”

Silk slides, baring skin. Changmin puts his mouth to every inch, caressing with lips and tongue, fingers stroking until Yunho makes a sharp noise, breath catching. Aware of the thunder of his pulse, Changmin strokes his hands down Yunho’s body. He has nothing to make this easier except his own saliva. Dipping his head, Changmin presses kisses along Yunho’s flank and licks at him.

Yunho’s breaths come faster. He crouches on the futon and shivers.

Changmin wets his palm and glides saliva over his cock. He covers Yunho and jabs at him, hot and hard, and Yunho groans and ramps back. They join, Changmin sinking deeper as Yunho shoves and shoves until he’s impaled. There’s a sweetness to it, but also a tangle, like sleeves caught on thorns. Taking hold of Yunho’s hips, Changmin pulls them both up, balances himself until Yunho’s back is flush against his front.

Yunho drops his head against Changmin’s shoulder, panting. He turns his face, breath hot over Changmin’s throat. They move together, a ripple of muscles and a building of tension, warmth and pressure and the hot, delicious slide of friction. Changmin runs one hand up Yunho’s chest and tugs at a nipple, making Yunho moan, making him snap his hips and grind down harder, harder.

Rocking forward again, his head bowed, Yunho works himself on Changmin’s cock. Sweat gleams across his nape and trickles down his spine. Changmin licks at it, salt and sweet on his tongue. He brings Yunho back to him and wraps a hand around Yunho’s dick, jerking him in time to the ferocious rhythm of their thrusts. Wetness coats his fingers. Yunho claws at the bunched futon and snarls. 

They break within a heartbeat of one another. Yunho first, hot and tight and gasping, and Changmin drags him down, holds him there until release has gone through them both, until seed covers Changmin’s hands and Yunho’s body and there’s only softening, boneless pleasure.

They clean up with the remainder of the tissue paper then lie together, drowsy with satisfaction.

After a while, Yunho reaches out and draws the lacquered tray closer. He offers Changmin the dish of sweet rice cakes, then pours the wine into the cup. Changmin eats, the red bean paste rich and delicious. Yunho takes a drink then holds out the cup. Changmin sips from it, then Yunho drinks again. Finishing the rice cake, Changmin has a second sip of wine. Yunho refills the cup and takes a third drink before handing it back, his expression intense as he watches Changmin cradle the wine.

Changmin pauses. Three sips from the same cup represents union, a binding contract offered and agreed. He looks at Yunho and allows himself to hope. Even if he is sold to Sakabe, Changmin will take with him the knowledge that first he belonged to Yunho, and Yunho belonged to him.

Holding Yunho’s gaze, Changmin lifts the cup and drinks a third time.

* * *

Yunho arrives on the morning of the tenth day with a sandalwood casket heaped full of pearls of the finest lustre. Half of their number is creamy white; the other half is glossy black. They glimmer in the uncertain light from the lamps, and when Changmin touches them, when he picks up a handful and lets them spill through his fingers, they’re warm.

He thought he’d become accustomed to Yunho’s casual display of wealth, but this is beyond anything he could imagine. Changmin drops the last pearl from his palm into the box and pretends an indifference he doesn’t feel.

“If you wish to buy my freedom, you should apply to my master.” He looks again at the contents of the box. “That amount of pearls has a value far, far above what Sakabe Doya offered for me. I’m sure Kazen would look favourably upon your suit.”

Yunho doesn’t smile. “I want to buy Red Dappled Silk.”

Shock holds Changmin still, and then comes the pain. It howls through him like the flaying winter wind—injured pride, the shatter of betrayal, the realisation that the gentle courtship and the passion of their lovemaking has meant nothing at all.

“No.” Yunho seems to realise his error. He pushes Red Dappled Silk aside as if she was a toy made of straw and tries to take Changmin’s hands. “No. Changmin, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Brittle laughter cracks through Changmin’s voice. “I fear your gallantry has deserted you when you need it most.”

Yunho seizes Changmin by the arms and stares down at him. “Trust me.”

Changmin wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He turns his head and exhales, soft and slow, trying to calm his racing heart. “I am a fool.”

“Far from it.” Yunho’s voice is rough, but the look he gives Changmin is tender. “Let me buy the koto.”

“Even though you know she is cursed?”

Yunho gives him a crooked smile. “Why, my sweet, do you fear I might perish in a fire?”

Changmin knows he should utter some cold retort, something cruel and cutting to show the depth of his disappointment and anger, but instead he blurts out, “I fear I will never see you again.”

“Oh.” Yunho touches Changmin’s face. His fingertip comes away sticky with white paint. “You will see me again. That much I promise.”

Changmin wavers. Yunho has not broken a promise yet, but there’s always a first time. He summons his hauteur. “If I give you Red Dappled Silk, I will be alone. Perhaps you will find some other boy, younger and prettier than me, to play for you.”

“Jealousy sits ill with you.” Now Yunho sounds amused. “But if your vanity demands it, then know that you are incomparable.”

“And yet you will buy my koto and not make an offer for me.” This time Changmin can’t keep the hurt from his tone.

“It is not my place to buy your freedom.” Yunho pushes the box of pearls towards him. “But perhaps Red Dappled Silk will buy it for you.”

Hesitation grips him. Changmin stares at the casket. Take the pearls and buy his freedom, or keep Red Dappled Silk and remain indentured? The decision should be easy, but the koto is his only true joy. Admirers and patrons have come and gone; only Red Dappled Silk has remained his constant.

His hands steady, his decision final, Changmin closes the lid on the pearls. “I’m sorry, but I cannot sell her.”

Yunho looks at him, gaze deep and intense. He smiles. “I understand.” Then he bows right down to the ground and gets up to leave.

A clutch of fear goes through Changmin. “When will I see you again?”

“Soon.” Yunho pauses at the door and smiles, bright in the shadows. “Very soon.”

* * *

Changmin’s time of punishment finally comes to an end. The hour of the Rooster beats out from the drum-tower. The sun is beginning to set, the sky painted through with red, the air finally warm at the death of day.

Kazen arrives with a couple of retainers to escort Changmin back to the house in Yoshicho. He thanks the auntie for her assistance over the past ten days, and money exchanges hands.

Changmin takes his time wrapping the koto in her silken shroud. One of the retainers has brought Red Dappled Silk’s cherry wood box, and Changmin lifts her into it with care.

Kazen stands nearby and scolds him for putting them all through such an ordeal. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” his master says. “More importantly, I hope you will display the right amount of humility and obedience when Sakabe calls on you again. I’ve had word that he’s arrived back in Edo and is most anxious to see you. We can only pray that he’s still willing to pay seven hundred ryo. Heaven knows what he’ll say when he discovers you accepted that foreigner’s gold!”

Changmin fastens the lid on the cherry wood box and gets to his feet. “No doubt he’s already aware of it and expects a percentage.”

His master splutters. Ignoring his complaints, Changmin lifts the weight of the koto in her box and begins to walk slowly towards the door. The whores move aside for him. A few call out good wishes for his health and happiness, and he inclines his head in grateful acknowledgement. He will never see any of these women again. Once he’s sold to Sakabe, it’s doubtful he’ll ever return to the Five Streets.

A palanquin arrives just as he sets foot over the threshold. Kazen shoves back the tattered blue curtain and stares. There’s no crest upon the palanquin’s sides, but it’s made of sandalwood, the scent low and curling, and the curtains are of heavy Chinese brocade. The bearers are blank-faced and silent, and there’s an armed escort of two guards. One steps forward and bows to Kazen.

“Honourable sir,” the guard says, “by the command of my master we have come to convey the koto-player Changmin to his home.”

Kazen clasps his hands together. “Oh my,” he breathes, almost hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement. “It seems you’ve been forgiven. Sakabe obviously can’t wait until tomorrow to see you! This is very exciting. Very promising. Perhaps I can ask for a thousand ryo after all.”

Changmin bows his head as if in deference. “What should I do?” His heart is beating very fast, hope fluttering inside him. “Should I go with them, master?”

“Stupid boy! Of course you must go with them.” Kazen gives him a little push towards the palanquin, exclaiming all the while at Changmin’s foolishness. “And tell Sakabe I will call upon him tomorrow to discuss payment!”

Keeping his expression meek and biddable, Changmin arranges Red Dappled Silk within the palanquin before climbing inside. He draws the brocade curtain, shutting out the view of his master still exhorting him to be on his best behaviour when he sees Sakabe, and settles back against feather-stuffed cushions.

The palanquin bumps as the bearers set off. Changmin curls an arm around the cherry wood box, partially to protect the koto from the jolting as they dip and sway through the streets, and partially because holding onto her keeps him calm.

They stop at the gates. The watchman glances inside then signals for them to be on their way. Changmin twitches aside the curtain and peeps out as they cross the bridge over the moat. He stares at the cluster of shops selling tea and wine and food, then tilts his head and squints ahead at the road back to the city. Edo seems far away from here, and yet it is only an hour’s distance.

He lets the curtain fall again, spreads his sleeves over the koto in her box, and rests his head on his hands.

After a while, Changmin feels the palanquin set down gently upon the ground. For a moment there’s silence, and then comes the rumble of carriage wheels and the heavy tread of oxen. The cart draws to a halt nearby. He hears the snorted breath of the animals and the creak of wood.

He pushes aside the curtain and clambers out. The setting sun pulls a long shadow from him, and already a faint mist rises across the marshland. His armed escort has vanished. So have the bearers. When Changmin turns, the palanquin has also gone. The koto lies inside her cherry wood box in the road, surrounded by leaves and twigs and knotted grasses.

An ox-cart waits alongside, the animals of purest white. The curtains on the enclosed carriage are of heavy Chinese brocade. Yunho sits in the driver’s seat. He holds neither reins nor goad. He just sits there, relaxed in his robes of cream and russet with the odd patterns, and he’s smiling.

Changmin stares. Realisation is slow, as if mired in ice, but it’s coming, it’s coming. “Where did they go?” he asks.

Yunho swings himself down from the cart and comes to stand beside Changmin. “Their services were no longer required, so I dismissed them.”

Something is missing. Changmin knows it, gropes for it. Like a fool, he looks up and down the road in search of the missing men and the vanished palanquin. Behind him, Yoshiwara fades into the mist. Ahead, Edo spreads out like spilled ink.

A heron cries, the sound harsh. Changmin jerks his gaze to the road, to his shadow. To Yunho’s shadow. It has ears. Not human ears but sharp pointed ears, an animal’s ears. It has a tail, too; a long, thick brush.

Changmin faces him, heart pounding. Yunho smiles. Human ears. No tail. Uncertain, but recognising the truth at last—why hadn’t he seen it before?—Changmin takes one more glance at the shadow before he looks back at Yunho. “You let the illusion slip. You—you’re...”

“Yes, I did.” Yunho tilts his head, eyes very dark and bright. “Yes, I am.” The air shimmers, the mist whipping back as the glitter of frost descends, and Changmin sees not one fox-tail but an array of them, fanned out behind Yunho, and he counts their number and realises—

“Nine,” Changmin whispers. “A nine-tailed fox.” He goes down onto his knees before this most powerful of creatures and bows. “Red Dappled Silk belongs to you.”

“No,” Yunho says. “She is yours.” He kneels in front of Changmin and pats the cherry wood case. “She would never sing for me, no matter what I did. But she sang for a human woman, once; sang so beautifully that I gave her the koto as a wedding gift. The lady played for me, but her husband was jealous and chased me away.

“I went wandering through these islands and across the sea until the memory of the koto’s song drew me back, but the lady and her husband were long dead, her children scattered, her children’s children even further afield. For years I’ve been searching, needing to hear the koto’s song again—and here she is. With you, the last living descendant of the woman to whom I gifted Red Dappled Silk.”

Changmin shakes his head, staring at the ground. “You should take her back.” 

Yunho rises to his feet. “I cannot play,” he says, then adds softly, “But you can.”

A moment passes. Changmin looks up and meets Yunho’s gaze.

“You’re free.” Yunho says, his smile deepening. “Do as you please.” 

Changmin doesn’t hesitate. He’s made his decision. He gets up, balancing the koto against him, and takes Yunho’s hand as the sun sets all around them.


End file.
